


Flourish

by cookiegirl



Category: A Quiet Place (2018)
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 20:03:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17049692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookiegirl/pseuds/cookiegirl
Summary: The first winter.





	Flourish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chibifukurou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibifukurou/gifts).



> Happy holidays! :)

Regan has always loved the snow. It makes the world look the way it always sounds to her: still, settled, silent.

Last winter the snow came late, well after Christmas, and turned February into a month of snowmen and snow angels, wellington-booted walks in the woods and hot cocoa by the fire in the evenings. Last winter, Regan lifted her eyes to the sky and twirled around in the snowflakes, faster and faster until she fell over, laughing, the snow cushioning the impact.

This year the snow comes early, in November, and it is nothing but a threat.

Her father wakes at five o’clock each day and douses the icicles hanging from the porch eaves in warm water, melting them into nothing before they can drop and crash to the ground. They learned early on that the shattering of an icicle on the porch steps could draw a creature from a mile away.

Afterwards, her dad tours the trees nearest to the house, sweeping the snow drifts carefully from the branches before they can weigh heavy enough to crack the boughs, before the branches can fall and thud. He tightens the tape on the windows that stops them from rattling, and he blocks the crack under the front door where the wind whistles through. Regan watches him on his rounds, the tension in his body mirrored in hers.

Her dad teaches her and Marcus about the types of snow. Regan used to think that snow was just snow, but now - now she knows better. Now there are different levels of danger in the whiteness. There is snow that is powder-soft and fluffy, that silences footsteps but that collects into drifts that are deeper than they look. And, worse, there is snow that is packed hard with an icy crust on top, that crunches when touched, that makes it impossible to move without drawing attention. She learns to identify the different types by sight, to avoid having to test it. By December Regan can look at a morning snowfall and judge whether anyone will be leaving the house that day.

(To Marcus, the snow is just snow, and he rolls his eyes when his father isn’t looking. When their father tests him, Regan signs the answers to him behind her dad's back.)

It’s not just the noise that the snow can cause that worries her father. When he thinks Regan is not watching, he talks to her mother about the crops, about whether they will survive, expressing his fears in short, urgent hand movements. Her mother calms him, signs to him that nature can find a way to flourish under the worst of conditions. But Regan can see the concern in her eyes, even from across the room.

On the worst days, the snow stops her father from going to the silo and lighting the signal fire in the evening. When he does manage to go, there are fewer answering fires across the horizon, less spots of light in the darkness, but they cannot tell if it is simply that the snow has stopped their faraway neighbors from signalling. It’s only when one of the fires is absent for three weeks that her father crosses their location off his list of survivors.

\---

It’s an evening in mid-December. Regan watches the snow through the misty window, a worn copy of _The Tempest_ open on her lap. Her mother wants her to read the plays of Shakespeare, though Regan isn’t sure why. The chance of them ever being performed again is slim to none - not in a world where spoken words, or footsteps on the boards of a stage, or a single round of applause could mean death. She reads them anyway.

Her father is down in the basement. Marcus is doing his algebra homework. And her mother is - her mother is sewing something.

She reaches over to the other end of the couch, and taps her mother softly on the arm. _What are you making?_ She signs.

Her mom shows her: a small snowflake shape, in scraps of bright cotton. She is sewing a loop of cotton to the top of it. _Christmas ornaments_ , she signs. _Ones that won’t smash if they fall off the mantel_. She mimes an ornament shattering and plants her hands dramatically on each side of her face, mouth open, making Regan giggle silently.

Christmas. She’d almost forgotten it was coming. Or - not forgotten, exactly - more dismissed it as something that was no longer part of their world. Parties, presents wrapped in shiny paper, carol singers: they are from a different time. A time when Beau would wake them all at 5 a.m., eyes shining, when he would run around the room with his new electronic toys flashing bright colors, and everything was okay.

\---

 _Christmas?_ She sees her dad signing to her mom later, his face skeptical, as he looks at the small pile of snowflake shapes on the table.

 _They’re still kids_ , her mom replies. _They still need Christmas. We all do._

_There’s so much to do, just to survive -_

_More reason then_ , her mother replies, _to have something to look forward to._

Her dad looks unsure, brows furrowed, lip caught between his teeth, but then her mom leans up to kiss him, and he kisses her back.

And Regan thinks: _I have to make Christmas perfect, for mom._

\---

The snow the next day is light, fluffy, and near-silent underfoot.

Regan pads downstairs in the morning to find her dad getting ready for a trip to town. Regular trips are necessary; they need supplies - medicines, toiletries - and they can only carry so much back each trip. And Marcus has grown out of last year's winter jacket, and needs a new one.

 _I want to come_ , she signs, thinking of Christmas, thinking of her mother, of Marcus, of them having something to open on Christmas morning. She can find them presents in the town, proper presents.

 _I can help you carry the supplies_ , she tells her father.

Her mother smiles at her softly, but her father is frowning, his head shaking automatically. _No, Regan, you need to -_

 _Please?_ She asks.

He shakes his head again, and she grits her teeth. _I want to come_ , she signs again, each gesture hard and determined.

_It’s too dangerous -_

_I’ve been before_ , she signs, and then freezes, because that’s true, but the last time she went - the last time -

Her father winces and looks away.

 _Let her go with you_ , her mother signs to him. Something passes between her parents that Regan doesn’t understand, and her mother presses her hand onto his arm. He sets his jaw, and turns back to Regan.

 _Stay right beside me the whole time_ , he signs, and she nods quickly, convincingly.

_I promise._

\---

They can't go barefoot lest they freeze, but in the powder-snow they can wear soft-soled sneakers without making noise. Her dad walks next to her, never more than a few inches away, and it occurs to her that he is close enough for her to reach out and hold his hand if she wanted. Last year she would have done so without a second thought. Her hand clenches and unclenches in her coat pocket.

She focuses on the present. And when they walk over the bridge, she doesn't pause, doesn't look down at the tiny memorial, doesn't cry, not today. That's something she keeps for when she is by herself.

\---

Town looks more eerie than usual in the snow. This time last year, there were lights strung up, holiday displays in the windows, the smell of roasting chestnuts in the air. And there were crowds: happy kids, stressed parents, a man dressed as Santa shaking a charity tin. Now everything is untouched, not even any footsteps in the snow.

 _Drugstore first_ , her father signs. He doesn't quite look at her. The rocket was from the drugstore.

They leave their sneakers in the snow by the door. Her dad loads pill bottles into a rucksack, wrapping each one in cotton so they don't knock against each other. Regan wanders, padding in her stocking feet across the tiled floors, scanning the shelves for something for Marcus. Something to make him smile. Last year it was video games and a replica light saber. This year it is… what?

She finds an art set in the gifts section. Oil pastels, that will glide softly across paper without scratching. Marcus liked to draw, years ago, before he became obsessed with Xbox and _Star Wars_. He could draw again.

She picks it up, and a sketchbook filled with thick paper, and puts it in her rucksack. When she looks up, her father is watching her, brows drawn slightly, but he looks more surprised than disapproving.

 _For Marcus_ , she signs. _Christmas_. She feels embarrassed, as if she's been caught doing something wrong.

He nods, gives her something like a smile, and indicates the door. _Clothes store_ , he signs.

They put their sneakers back on by the door, and they go.

Her father doesn't take a long time choosing a jacket for Marcus. He picks the warmest, heaviest one in his size and turns to go straight away, but Regan shakes her head.

 _I want to get a present for mom_ , she signs.

Her dad's gaze flicks towards the door. For a moment she thinks he'll insist they leave, but she pleads with him with her eyes, and it's the longest she's looked him in the eye for weeks, and eventually he nods.

 _Be quick_ , he signs.

She tiptoes through the store, looking for something her mom will like. Something practical, useful but beautiful too, like her mother. She pauses by the hats, the scarves, and then she remembers her mother rubbing her fingers and holding her hands out to the fire the other night when she was sewing, unable to wear gloves or mittens for delicate work. Regan’s gaze falls on a pair of finger-less gloves. She tries them on. They are a sapphire blue, cashmere, soft and slight but capable of providing great warmth and protection.

She takes them, packing them carefully on top of the sketchbook. And then, on impulse, checking that her father isn't watching, she grabs something for him too. A scarf, thick and chunky and knitted in the sort of bright colors he doesn't usually wear but that she thinks will suit him.

She turns to go, and something catches her eye. It’s a necklace, displayed on a stand to her right, and, _oh_ \- it's beautiful, the kind of thing she might have begged her parents for in years past. It’s a delicate silver chain with a tiny silver bird hanging from it, wings spread in flight. She stares for a moment, fingers stretching out unbidden and tracing the shape of the bird, then shakes her head: there is no need for necklaces any more, for delicacy. It’s frivolous. She's not a child with silly dress-up dreams.

Her father steps beside her, and puts his hand on her back. _Ready to go?_ He signs, and she nods. She has everything she came for.

They pad back softly across the store, then crouch in the doorway to lace up their sneakers. Regan’s dad finishes first and stands, looking to the sky. The light is starting to dim, Regan notices, even though it is only early afternoon.

Her dad glances at her. _We’ll need to walk quickly to make it back before dusk_ , he signs. He turns back to the sky.

Regan double-checks her laces, making sure her sneakers are on firmly, then stands. She wants to show her dad she can walk as fast as he can. She won’t be a burden. She steps out into the street, and -

And the street is icy, and she didn’t look at the ground first like she should. Her foot is out from under her before she can register what’s happening, and then she’s weightless for a brief, horrible second, twisting in the air before she hits the ground with a thud that knocks the breath out of her and jars her bones. Her backpack hits something on the way down: a trash can. It lists to the side for a moment, then tips, and Regan isn’t quick enough to stop it before it’s falling too, hitting the ground just like she does, but, she imagines, with a greater crash.

In a second her father is by her side, grabbing her up off the ground and into his arms, stumbling backwards into the shelter of the doorway. He crouches, pulling her close to him, his hand over her mouth. And they wait. It’s only seconds - _seconds_ \- before the creature launches itself out of the woods on the other side of the road and skitters wildly across the road, pouncing on the trash can. It claws its way through the metal, its legs a blur of motion, slicing the can to shreds. Then it stops, stock still.

And turns its head towards them.

Her father’s arms tighten around her. He’s not breathing. She’s not breathing.

The creature takes a slow, pointed step closer.

She doesn’t dare blink, lest her eyelids make a sound. Her eyes are on fire. Something wet slips down her face, and she’s not sure if it’s snowfall or a tear. Either way it burns on her cold skin. Her chest clenches, lungs protesting at the lack of oxygen. She fears she might implode.

Her father shifts minutely next to her, to press his lips to her cheek. She wonders if it’s a goodbye.

Suddenly, the creature in front of them is moving again, its limbs stretching out, and Regan screws up her eyes, not wanting to watch if this is the end. But all she feels is a gust of air, the remnants of a movement, and when she opens her eyes the creature is already on the other side of the road, scuttling back and forth across the sidewalk and stretching a claw towards the sky.

She turns her head to look at her father.

 _Bird. Squawked._ His signs are shaky, hands trembling.

They watch as the bird flies away, and the creature slinks back into the woods.

For a long moment, they don’t dare move at all. Her dad holds her tight against him still, the rough wool of his coat against the skin of her face. He smells of snow and smoke and wood and eucalyptus shower gel, and the father she remembers from before - Before.

It feels like an age since she was close to him like this, since he has held her. But now that she's here and his arms are strong and unwavering around her, she wonders whether it was really him who stopped reaching out, or if it might have been her who started stepping out of reach every time.

 _I’m sorry I fell_ , she signs at last.

He shakes his head. _It’s not your fault_ , he replies, and then he pauses, and signs it again, movements more deliberate. Certain. _It’s not your fault._

He brushes another kiss against her cheek, and then they stand, and move.

By the time they near their home two hours later, darkness is starting to fall, and it’s the excuse she needs to reach for his hand.

\---

Christmas Day is not what Regan expected. She had thought, somehow, that it would be a weak imitation of the past, but it’s not. It’s just different.

Her mom decorates the living room with candles and swathes of greenery from outside, and her bright cotton creations - not just snowflake shapes but stars and heart shapes too. Her dad has somehow found mistletoe, and holds it over her mom at every possible moment.

They play Monopoly in front of the fire, all four of them; her father stays out of the basement all day.

And there are gifts, wrapped in old sweaters rather than rustling paper. Marcus' eyes light up when he opens his oil pastels, and he spends the rest of the day telling her the things he's going to draw. Her dad winds his new bright scarf around his neck even though it is warm inside, and he wears it until dinnertime. Her mom tears up when she sees the cashmere gloves, and hugs Regan long and hard.

Regan unwinds the thick fabric around her own presents to find her mother has given her a notebook in which she has written a different favorite quote on each page, accompanied by meticulously drawn pencil illustrations. Marcus has given her one of his favorite teddy bears, the one with the plushest fur that she always used to stroke when he wasn't looking. And her dad -

Her dad has given her a tiny, delicate necklace with a bird in flight.

She looks up at him in shock. He must have seen her looking, that day at the store, and taken it without her noticing.

 _Happy Christmas, sweetheart_ , he signs, and she slips it round her neck, and feels like she could fly.


End file.
